Lazy Gramophones Artists pages

The Fibreglass Fat Man-A Work Placement

Written by Andrew Walter on Saturday the 6th of February 2010

After six
months or so in the world of security (Oh, but what a world it is) I became uncomfortably aware that many of my
colleagues were decidedly sedentary.
Even those of an intelligent disposition became listless and cynical at
an extremely rapid pace as the week wore on.
Slack minded, eyes glazed, the twelve hours passes by. News and sport websites are scanned,
occasionally providing the impetus for a conversation of sorts, which then,
inevitably, collapses-a husk.

Panic
struck me one sluggish afternoon. I
dimly remembered taking on the position for the opportunity for self
improvement, and for the free time it offered me. Fretting, I groped back through the mists of
mental time-space, and retrieved a spark.
I must look for an apprenticeship, a work placement, charity work,
anything to furnish me with a few precious skills, just like people believed
from the adverts. Turning my back to a
colleague who was consuming fluffy white sandwiches in a manner that could have been described as bovine had the
contents not been Hellmans and reconstituted ham, I browsed the mailing lists.

Amongst the
weeks of unchecked opportunity, I soon found something that might suffice-
twelve hours work placement per week at a fibreglass moulding studio,
constructing street furniture, bespoke jewellery and theatre props. I jumped at the chance. Here was a whole new vocation I could expand
into. I could probably take the
placement and still keep my security job.
Visions of a future where I owned a business swam into focus, me, shiny
with honest sweat from the days achievements, constructing and designing
seaside amusements, park novelties, perhaps even fairground rides. Brimming with a positivity alien to my
normally dour nature, I dialled the number, not even letting the fact that the
gentleman had neglected to capitalise his own name put me off.

A genial
voice with touches of Cockney answered, and banter was exchanged, even a joke,
albeit a poor one I had heard countless times before (Securityguardareyouwellstealoneformemate.) An informal interview
was arranged for five days hence, I was to bring things from my portfolio
along, arrangements would be made.

The day
soon arrived. Trekking to the north of , I struggled with
originals in bubble wrap, foolishly painted on back-breakingly heavy
tiles. My instructions were to call when
I was outside the orange door, and after enquiring of some clueless locals
about the aperture in question I found myself in place. A pair of plastic cowboy boots hung
threatening and gauche above the orange rectangle, and a flicker of doubt
passed through me.

Some days
previous I had browsed the personal website of the gentleman, and was struck by
how with it and hip other people might describe it as. An awful animation of the designer bedecked
in a white suit, striding over a rotating globe confronted me, tapping around
the planet with a zany, red and presumably fibreglass cane. I learned that this man was the genius behind
not only those cheap looking pod chairs that scatter careers guidance centre
floors and budget hotels across the globe, but also those horrible chrome
champagne buckets in the shape of upturned headgear. I was somewhat comforted to note, though,
that he had been working in situ for
over a decade. The worm of unease coiled
tighter in my gut as I perused his personal photographs and saw him smiling
charmingly while wearing a funny trendy hat, lolling backwards on a backdrop of
his own enormously inflated sketches while wearing a funny trendy hat, and
posing on a fibreglass motorbike with an acoustic guitar and artfully ripped
denim, this time his allowing his elegantly coiffure locks to cascade over bare
shoulders.

I remember
thinking even at this early stage that it was unusual for a designer and
professional craftsman to have so many photographs of himself on show, and that
it seemed to point to someone with a raging ego complex, a man unpractical and
unblessed with the gift of pedagogy.
Someone that would be given to self obsession, preening, and vacuous socialising. Unreliable and softly flaky.

My
suspicions were soon to be confirmed, albeit in a small way. Outside that shockingly hued door on a grey January afternoon, he answered my
phone call with a brusque Hello?.
There were voices in the background.

Hello
Denn, its Andrew, Ive come for the interview.
You asked me to call when I was outside your door.
There was
no reply, just the crowd in the background. Then-

Oh...yeah. Andrew, right?

Yes...?

Yeah I was Paris
in over
the weekend and I really hurt my...hurt my neck. Ive just come out of the osteopath and I
wont be able to make it to the studio today.

Consumed by
irritation, my back and neck aching terribly, I waited for an apology, a
plausible excuse, anything. I received
silence, the sullen nature of which made it clear it was my fault, my problem
Id travelled out here for no reason.

What did
you do to it? I enquired.

Ahhhhhh,
yknow, bleeeeeah. was the limp nonsense that followed.

Briskly, I
asked about rescheduling for next week, determined not to become truly annoyed,
and reminding myself of the nature of artists and their folly. Another meeting in one weeks time was
arranged, but surely this pointed to sheer incompetence? Did I really care to work for a man of such
haphazard organisational standards? Or
perhaps it was something deeper, a contempt for the other. I tried to put the thought aside, but the
spectre of this mans possibly enormous ego tittered in my ear.

Wouldve
called and let you know, but didnt have your number. was the patent lie that
ended our conversation. The fact it was a lie is borne out by the e-mail I
had sent him containing that exact information, and the multiple telephone
calls I had made from my handset to his.
All of this occurred, of course, after I had already agreed to
reschedule. Ah, hindsight.

Give me a
call in the morning next time before hand, I mean...I will be there! he had
yipped in alarming fashion during that aggravating discourse, so when that same
request was granted in the following week, I was surprised to have my query
dashed with an indignant splutter, as he informed me that of course he would be
there- it was almost as if he had forgotten entirely.

When those
orange planks did finally swing back, I was shocked. Angry piggy eyes stared out from under an
ironic pork pie hat, which was immaculately clean, as if it had been placed
atop the fellows head seconds before.
Pink fleshly jowls hung down around all the features, crested with
gingery fuzz. This wasnt the prick from
the photographs; this was another prick, with an extra 80lb hanging off of him,
stooped and haggard. Either the website
had been unchanged for a decade, or the wild ravages of the public fibreglass
sculpture sector parties had hit particularly hard. He twitched, peering down at my artwork,
protected from the crass stupidity in his eyes by bubble wrap. It crinkled, as if nervous.

Is it a
Van Gogh? he quipped.

I didnt
know what to say, so I simply followed as he turned away, noting that the
disposable one piece workmans overalls he wore did nothing to conceal his
gut. It was spattered with debris from
the workshop, in stark contrast to his hat.
I followed his heavy back.

Crossing
the yard, a beautiful Japanese girl in blue overalls was sanding down part of
an indeterminate amorphous piece of sculpture.

MiMi!!
bellowed the man explosively, jabbing his finger at her in what I suppose was
meant to be amiable fashion. She
giggled.

I was taken
on a whistle-stop tour of the workshop and yard. Within seconds I knew something was utterly
wrong with the man. Plodding heavily,
then skipping the next, he exhibited all the signs of a distressed mental
condition, I supposed from extensive use of stimulants at fibreglass parties
over the last decade.

We touched
on various topics. When I mentioned that
I found my present employment rather
mind-numbing, the corners of his mouth drew down in a clownish grimace, and his
eyes rolled spasmodically back into his head.

OH YEAH??
he hooted. The pork pie hat nearly
somersaulted.
N-n-n-n-n-nnnnnnnumbing
yer brain are ya?? I know that one!! He
seemed totally incapable of talking at a normal volume.

As he
popped and jerked around, he was given to horrible little acts of
pantomime. Once, when I was explaining to
him when I would and would not be able to work for him due to the shifting
nature of my employment, he told me to give me a call when I was Feelin
good, and performed a small body popping routine in the middle of my
sentence. Mimi, who was asking him if he
would like a cup of tea, began giggling uncontrollably. He didnt appear to be listening to anything
I said at all, as I had to repeat myself a number of times.

He suddenly
became very solemn, not far from threatening.
He seemed to loom within the clutter of the studio. Alarmed at the shift in tone, I nearly took
as step back.

You can
only come in one day every other week then? he asked in eerie,
brittle tones.

No-no I
can almost always do two days a week, but there would be a couple where Id have
to conf-

People
come in here, you know, they think they can learn resin in a week. Not gonna happen., he rapped. His horrible eyes seemed to be looking at my
forehead.

Youre serious about this, arent you? You want
to do this?

It was a
supreme effort not to lose my temper.

Of course
I am, I replied. The advert said twelve hours a week, six hours a day. I wouldnt have contacted you if I wasnt
serious about this would I? Im not
fair-weather about this type of thing.

Cool! he
shouted, becoming breezy again. Greatly
perturbed by his behaviour, I followed him to another room in the studio.

His actions remained erratic. We talked
about his various projects. He still
appeared to be conducting a conversation with himself, or at least somebody
other than me.

Were
building a giant skateboard!! he screamed.

Over there
theres a massive shoe!! he hollered.

A fake
horse! he bellowed, though I couldnt see one.

At one
point, while casting a flickering, uncomprehending eye over the work I had
brought with me, he started using words like tufty-pufty and nonsensical
terms like printdrawing.

We found
ourselves in a room stuffed with rubbish, disgustingly tasteless pod chairs
daubed in paint and glitter. Sweeping an
arm around he intoned that he wasnt just a designer, he was an artist too,
picking out some pieces of MDF and driftwood crammed with gaudy neon childrens
ray-guns, plastic dinosaurs and racing cars adhering to the boards with
Epoxy. I was treated to a second
disturbing pantomime act whilst he expounded on the struggles he had
experienced in his to rise to acceptance by a local gallery. He explained how it was

Like- and began grotesquely humming a sort of
quasi-gospel tune something like
Na-na-na-nah-ha-ha-haa
praise the Lord while half cupping his left hand, palm upward, and wafting his
right rhythmically in the region of his engorged navel. Perhaps it was meant to represent a ukulele,
but all I knew was that it was a highly upsetting action.

Embarrassed
and bewildered, I searched in earnest for something to say. I selected an old ladder plated with dominoes
for compliment, partly at a loss for any real topic, but also because its
monochromatic palette qualified it by far as being the least offensive object
in the claustrophobically tasteless room.

Yeah its
NICE isnt it!? he leered at me, the expression giving way to a look of gentle
innocence as we re-entered the pallid afternoon sun.

After
arranging that I should call the following day to finalise the dates I was
available for his disposal (something which I opined was wholly unnecessary if
he had actually listened to a single word Id said during the unsettling
caper), he abruptly ignored me, not even acknowledging my proffered Good-bye.
I kept this short, unable to shake the impression he would have sunk teeth into
a handshake. He simply blithered into
his mobile phone, should turned toward me, his apparent interviewee.

Mimi seemed
to know she was to get the keys and let me out-perhaps due to practice. While she looked for them I noticed in the
dim evening glow a number of mounted pictures around the fat man in the white
onesie. Some were indulgent stoner
doodles, framed, exonerated, displaying no great measure of talent. Others were what he would probably have
referred to as brainstorms. The most
affecting, though, were what seemed to be his publicity photographs. Slim, beaming, and sitting in yet another of
those odious pod chairs ( I had noticed during the tour they were outsourced,
manufactured in
), he adorned a number of very old local publication front pages and articles. On one, dated around seven years ago, he was
man of year in the borough. If it
werent for the subtle air of bullying, smug menace and outright violent insanity
that permeated the premises, I may have felt a little sorry for him; a
jabbering bitter grotesque amidst past accolades. Mimi had found the keys.

As we left
I asked her what it was like working there.
To my alarm she described as laid back, and actually indicated her
artists residency within the confines.
I didnt press to discover if she meant that she actually lived with the
man, and I am ashamed to say that I wondered for an instant what she had been
threatened with if her response had been fucking terrifying.

My
penultimate phone call to this man really congealed the loose idea I had of him
as being totally unstable. Petulant and
sighing, he once again began to repeatedly miss the point about when I was
available. It was incomprehensible to me
that he still wasnt listening. Finally,
when he was accepted into the sweet bosom of understanding, he became clipped
and bitter, despite my assurances that twelve hours was what he has specified
in his advert. Dim recollections of his
un-capitalised name arose as I wondered about a Venn diagram of stupidity and
madness.

His actual
words to me were;

Well, if
thats the best you can offer me I have no real choice but to take it, do I?

Unbelievably
he seemed to think I had decided to screw him around. The tone he was using was so sepulchral, so
resentful and wearied that for a moment I experienced the unpleasant sensation
that I was the maniac and that he was
totally level headed.Already I could see he had shunned
reality altogether, viewing me as a disappointing, unreliable lackey before I
had completed a minutes work in his bizarre studio of the unsound. I took umbrage, and after an afternoons
deliberation decided to withdraw my
request for the placement. I put the
call in later, to find the last of my suspicions validated.

It began
with me asking if he had ten spare minutes, and the response was a curt No.,
cutting me off.

What? I
replied, feeling the atrophied threads of our professional relationship being
still further shredded.

Two. Two minutes mate. Thats what Ive got. he answered, and he
sounded so warped I am still unsure if this was a joke or not. It sounded as though he were conducting important
fibreglass deal-perhaps the other shoe.
I deduced there was a third party.

I just
dont think you seem too happy with our arrangement, so Ive decided its
probably best if you re-post the advert, hire somebody else. I said.

Suddenly he
affected a jolly, distracted tone;
No, no
mate, if thats what you can do, thats what you can do, and you should take
it. Do it.

All
joviality froze in an instant, yet he still sounded frighteningly
convivial. He seemed to put the other
speaker on hold and his voice increased in volume as his gingery drug wattles
approached the mouthpiece.

What are
you saying to me?

Your
tone-

Whoa whoa whoa w-w-whoa are you bottling
out??

It was at
this point, incidentally, that I realised he really was socially insane. Already there was a genuine cold hatred in
his voice, which I thought was sad, in the true sense of the word, given that I
had made his acquaintance only twenty-four hours earlier. Bear in mind, reader, that this was a twelve
hour work placement were discussing, and that no-bodies pride had been bruised,
no blows had been exchanged, and certainly no pact of any kind entered
into. Nonetheless, he was talking to me
like I was the worst kind of oath breaker.
Never mind an oath, there was little chance of me even signing a
provisional contract with anyone who let his applicants wander around looking
for his studio while he was supposedly getting his neck seen to. I was nettled by his confrontational tone, I
admit, so, perhaps a little too calmly I retorted:

Im not
bottling out, I just dont appreciate being talked to like a dickhead.

The
fibreglass fat man erupted. This seemed
to have been boiling up ever since we met.
Even louder than usual, he roared;

Yeah, WELL
you ARE a dickhead!!

It was
enough. I matched him in tone and severity and started screaming into my hand
in the middle of the West End, demanding again
and again just why I was a
dickhead. I was making a total fool out
of myself, but I didnt care. One could
argue after all that he had already taken care of that for me, wasting my time
while I uncomfortably tolerated his cretinous flabby antics.

Because I
gave you this great placement and you took it away from me, he bellowed
nonsensically at me. I imagined Mimi
giggling next to his psychotic, glacial rage.
The infantile aspect in his voice was contemptible.

Youre a
BOTTLING PUSSY!! Youre a FUCKING PUSSY WANKSTAIN you LITTLE PRICK, you SCARED
LITTLE PUSSY WANKSTAIN!!, he bleated, like a child.

You have
no idea how to communicate with normal human beings do you, you clueless fuck!?
What kind of idiot are you? I cried, insulting one of the top fibreglass
designers in the country, thereby neatly annihilating any chance I will ever
have of working in the industry.

BLA BLAH
YAH YAH YAH FUCK OFF!! he raved, illustrating my point with brevity I would
never have managed. With that, he was
gone.

I was
quaking with rage, but I restrained myself from commuting to his studio and
attempting to kick in his door. Had I
taken a more Gombrowiczian view, I might have decided that I took an
unreasonable initial assessment of his character, coupled with a corresponding
overreaction. I may have observed
further that I was touched by his fiery business zeal and turbulent lust for life. As it is, however, I just think he is a
halfhead cokehead moron. His remarks had
been incredibly juvenile for a man who at least looked like he was pushing
forty. Mine too, were fairly childish,
but at the end of the whole affair my only regret is that I didnt use more of
that precious final phone call to make cheap jibes about his weight.